The second thing my father did when he woke up was wash his hands. He was preoccupied with his hands being clean, the coda of a childhood spent without running water. As a result, his hands were often dry from over-washing, the mottled skin on the back of his hands cracked and bloodied. I made my way to the front of the church, near my mother. His hands looked soft, newly slick with lotion. The perfumed moisture thick through the hair on his fingers, his nails filed to neat squares. There’s been a mistake, I said. That’s not my father.